Through the Frame
by I Was Here Moments Ago
Summary: Sirius sees the man on the bus every morning on the way to work. He can't help imagining a life for him. (muggle AU)


The stranger with the pretty eyes has been missing for a week. Sirius wonders whether he's gone on holiday, the poor thing always seems to look like he could use one. He hopes so, if only because he's been looking increasingly pale during the few seconds a day Sirius manages to catch a glimpse of him as he gets on the bus, just before he sits down. The man always sits in the middle of the bus next to the window, pops his earphones in, and leans his head against the glass no matter how cold it is outside. Sirius likes to imagine he closes his eyes and relies on instinct alone to get off the bus (a single stop before Sirius's), the careless fluidity in his movements as he stands up to leave making him seem ethereal enough for it to be a possibility.

Maybe he _has _gone on holiday. He looks the type who'd enjoy monuments and museums over sunbathing and swimming. Greece, maybe. Which of course leads Sirius to imagine who he's gone away with. He's never once seen him pull his phone out to text anyone, never once heard him answer the phone. He doesn't think he's ever heard him speak, come to think of it, except to say thank you to the driver as he gets off. It makes Sirius smile every single time; he'd obviously not been brought up in London. Maybe he has a girlfriend he moved up here for. Or a boyfriend. Maybe their partner wakes up late and the man doesn't want to wake them by texting. Maybe they wake up early and have said everything they need to say to each other by the time the stranger leaves. Or maybe he really is as lonely as he looks, though he looks as though he's not quite realised himself just how lonely that is.

They pull into his usual stop and he's there waiting, pale as ever (not Greece then, if anywhere), his tawny hair glinting golden in the early summer sun. He meets Sirius's eyes on his way to his usual seat and Sirius freezes, trapped in time and held in place by his gaze, wondering if he'll smile and sit down next to him, strike up conversation about the weather or Keats (Sirius imagines he's the type to casually discuss Keats with strangers), but the man looks away moments later. He seems tired. Despite himself, Sirius worries.

Maybe he's been ill. Taking care of someone who's ill. He looks away and wonders why he does this, why he's fixated on this one man in his too loose trousers and his too tight shoes and he tells himself it's boredom. Nothing else to do on the way in to work. And it's a nice start to the day, a lot better than listening to babies crying and old women gossiping before he spends the next eight hours praying for it to be over soon.

Which leads him to wonder what the stranger does for a living. His first thought is that he is an artist, or a musician. He has long, delicate fingers Sirius thinks would be perfect dancing along the keys of a piano or creating beautiful pictures on canvases. But he's always so meticulously dressed, even if his clothes look years old. He cant imagine he'd put the effort in for a job like that. Maybe he's a photographer. He can't see him stuck in an office like Sirius, adding and subtracting and driving himself mad, but he also can't see him stacking shelves and helping customers and being trapped _inside_.

He's not listening to music today. Maybe he's lost his earphones.

A few weeks later it's busy and Sirius is running late. He'd stayed out the night before and had drank far too much and wasn't going to go into work at all (after the small amount of convincing his best friend James had attempted to do) but he has a _meeting _and it is _important _and he just wants to die rather than deal with the world whilst feeling as hungover as he feels.

He doesn't know how he manages it, but he makes the bus in time, a few stops later than he usually gets on on account of staying over at James's, and his usual seat near the back is taken. Most of the seats are taken. The one next to _him_ isn't.

He hesitates for a moment before he sits down, and feels the man tense when he does, moving his hand slowly to cover the pocket Sirius suspects his wallet is in. He's almost offended, but then wonders if maybe some of those little scars, tiny, thin marks even paler than his skin are the reason why he's so on edge, so distrustful. Sirius decides he doesn't want to imagine that.

He wonders whether he should say anything. It's just not _done_, is it, talking to strangers on buses. At bus stops it's fine, but once you're _on _the bus it seems there's an unwritten rule that you can't communicate at all, even if you've spent the last four months inventing backstories and adventures and family members for your intended conversation partner.

He should. He should say something. He's not going to get the chance again, not without seeming _very_ weird and purposely getting on a few stops later with the sole intention of sitting next to him _again_ and the man seems like he'd _know_. He seems like if he looked hard enough at Sirius he could see _through_ his eyes into the tangled mess of thoughts behind. Sirius notices the man's gone back to leaning against the window.

His eyes are open and they're sad.

The stranger gets off at the next stop and Sirius doesn't say a word to him. He regrets it as soon as they pull away, but then decides maybe some things are better off left in his imagination. They can be happy there, at least.


End file.
